THE IRRITATING WOMAN.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXII, Issue XXI, 27 May 1899, Page 744

THE IRRITATING WOMAN.

What did she do at the concert? Why, she wore seven bangles on belief t wrist; one of them had pigs and elephantshanging from it, with hearts and crosses mixed in. That would not have mattered—there was no need for me to look. What did matter was that the hall grew very hot, and the irritating woman had a fan as well as the bangles; which fan she rythmically proceeded to wave to and fro; played the orchestra softly or played it loudly, in every interval, in every •pianissimo,’ ‘click-clack, tinkle, click, click-clack, tinkle, click!’ went the pigs, hearts, crosses, and elephants. Like most music lovers, I must either close my consciousness to sound and let it pass over my head, excluding it from the brain as much as may be in a way one treats a barrel-organ’s wood,notes wild; or I must open my soul to the music as one gives oneself up to the swaying movement of a dance. Every rough, tripping place in the floor, every jerk that breaks the smoothness, is an outrage to the ecstatic dancer; and every unfortunate rustle or tinkle or creak that drags me away from my listening is to me simply a deed that calls for the doer’s instant and lingering death (if death can be instant, and lingering in this literal country).

Well, she tinkled and creaked, and I glared behind me at intervals till she began to grow uncomfortable. She had another woman with her, and the other woman said at last, ‘Your bangles, dear.’ ‘Oh, I’m very sorry, I'm sure!’ said my enemy, and the clanking stopped. After a few minutes 'the .programme began to interest her; she fluttered it, turned it. crumpled it, smoothed it out—it gave what sounded to my feverish ear like smothered curses, piercing yells, everv variety of sound. I had had no idea before what a harmless sheet of paper had in it, vocally. One hears something like it in a Dissenting congregation when the minister gives out the text, and everybody ‘turns it up.’ 1 stood it for a little time; then I tried some more glaring. The poor woman grew quite red, and looked back at me helplessly. I began to feel a brute, and turned back again, when the merciful companion came to my help with. ‘Perhaps your programme, dear ?’ and the crackling stopped. The Irritating Woman then began to take in the idea that the people on the platform were doing something, and would expect a little notice. She gave herself up to appreciation from that moment, and became a worse infliction than before. At the close of every fresh item she heaved prodigious sighs. ‘Ex-quisite!’ she said, with a long-drawn hiss. Listening for her became an ‘ex-quisite’ torture. Her bangles and programme were at least inarticulate.